


Ab Ovo

by Saccharine_Ghosts



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Marking, Minor Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, coming to terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 21:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saccharine_Ghosts/pseuds/Saccharine_Ghosts
Summary: After the asylum, Miles just wants revenge. He wants everybody who put him there, who made him suffer, to pay. The Walrider wants that too, it wants revenge and blood just as much as Miles does, maybe even more. He's found the man. The man who sent the email. He has his chance, and there's no holding back.Something stops him.ab o·voab ˈōˌvō,äb/adverbfrom the very beginning.





	Ab Ovo

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song Ab Ovo by Joep Beving, and it's a T R I P so I suggest you listen to that, or listen to it while you read the fic, I feel like it adds something. 
> 
> This is just a little character study, but please head my TW! There is a scene with some dubious consent tones. Please don't push yourself but since you're an Outlast fan I'm sure it's probably no problem. 
> 
> Please enjoy,  
> Teddy.

h̴̵̰̹̗̗̭̖͉̤̀͝a̵̴͖̠̦͓͘͟͝u͚͎̘̰̝͍͉͕͖̤̝͙͎̬̩͞͡͝ń̢̛͡͏̤̦̰̞t̸̶͍̤̞̦̘̦̱̪̦̮͉͘͡͡e̡̲̰͉͉̪̘̯̼̲̦̼̬̳̘̭͈̞͡ͅd̴̢̜̳̫̣͓̞̺̦͍̟̮͖͈̲̱͔̹

 

 

Apprehension was a feeling Miles had abandoned long ago, back in the first few years of his career as an investigative journalist. Maybe even before, he had always been the troublemaker during school, and in Afghanistan there was no time or place for apprehension of any sort, especially when he was getting reprimanded for his lashing out. 

So why did he feel apprehensive now? He could see the man, a few meters from where he stood, buying a coffee with eyes trained to his scuffed sneakers and shoulders hunched to make himself as small as possible, not that he needed to be any smaller. He could be easily overpowered, anybody could, but right now Miles was hoping it didn’t come to that. As much as he wanted the man to beg, to plead for his life, and to draw it out as long as he could, this was a highly populated area. 

He watched as the man took his coffee without complaint. He was older, but yet he didn’t complain about the time it took to be made, and he didn’t complain about the broken heater that had the whole coffee shop freezing like the outside, so surely he couldn’t be comfortable. Still, the man sipped his drink, made himself small, and sat in a booth with his jacket wrapped tightly around himself, as if that alone would shield him from onlookers. 

Miles would have to wait. He’d wait for the man to exit the coffee shop, he would steal him away before anybody could see, he really didn’t need another missing persons sighting claim on his ass. But again, this man was doing a superb job of hiding himself, and it was obvious nobody would see it happen. If they did, well, bystander syndrome would probably get the best of them. 

The man stood from his booth and began making his way out of the shop, coffee in hand and jacket buttons done up all the way to his neck. As soon as the door opened, and he stepped out, he let out a large huff; shoulders unwinding and social tension leaving his anxious body with the hot rush of air that escaped his mouth and left a fog in front of his face. 

When he rounded the corner, that’s when Miles made his move. This was the perfect spot, no windows on that side of the shop since directly beside it was a law firm with an ugly orange-red exterior, not exactly a sight you want to be seeing early in the morning before your daily commute. Miles didn’t breath, but the Walrider was emitting a signal that caused the air around him to fog and disturb like he was heaving, and it only worsened as he approached the man and reached out to touch him. 

The moment his hand met his shoulder, he should have killed him. One slice expertly through the chest, severing his heart and major arteries, that’s all it would take, and Miles’ would be the last face he saw. Miles’ warning would be the last thing he heard, but that wasn’t what happened, none of this was going according to plan. 

He spun the man around, forcing him roughly against the dingy brick wall of the coffee shop, and pinning him there. Their faces were close, his arms boxing the smaller man in, one leg between his thighs as he stared down at him, both of them unspeaking. The man began to tremble more, hands coming up to cover his face and protect it. This man knew, however, that whether it was Murkoff or something else, he was done. 

**_“Why?”_**

It must have startled the man even further, his voice sounding that way. When he was emotional, showed any sign of vulnerability, the Walrider tended to take hold, and it was showing. His eyes were probably dark, he could see the film growing over his vision, and his voice was deep and full of static, soundinh like ten people speaking at once. 

He composed himself. “Why?” he repeated, in a voice much more similar to his own. 

“I don’t _know,”_ the man answered through trembling lips in quick breaths, “Why what? What do you want to know?” 

_“Why did you send the email?”_

Suddenly, the man froze, hands lowering a bit as he stared up into Miles’ face, a look of horror and sympathy passing over his own. 

“Miles?”

As the hot air from the hushed words rushed over Miles’ face, the Walrider flared, pushing Miles to pin the man further to the wall, making him flinch and cover his face again as the trembling picked up. 

_“I’m sorry…”_

Miles’ blood was boiling, searing his skin and veins, pressure behind his eyes bubbling up and making him feel like his head was about to explode, but something in the genuine words made him pause and soften, and he slumped against the wall to the point where his head was resting on the wall beside the other's and his hands found their grip his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry too, Waylon.” 

Waylon’s hands came down and gripped Miles’ jacket, pulling them flush against each other. The younger man reacted, pulling Waylon against him and wrapping his arms around his shoulders 

“Help me, Waylon.” 

 

h̷̴̡̙͇̱͖͔o͝҉͕̯̤͇̞̱̪̝͡m̵͎̞̫̖̯̤͔͕͙̻͎̦̬͉̙̲͞e̙̱̪̳͙͔͎̭̭̹͘͜ͅ

 

 

Waylon moved a lot. He was constantly fidgeting, tapping his foot, and trembling. Miles was glad he didn’t need sleep, because being in bed with a restless Waylon was hell, and he often resorted to pulling Waylon close and hugging his arms to his chest so the man would stop moving. This didn’t work the first few times, only made the smaller man panic and turn back to the asylum, but nowadays it calmed him, knowing full well it was Miles and not Eddie Gluskin. 

Miles didn’t need sleep but he was _so_ tired. He missed it, and Waylon was so warm, and he hadn’t been warm in so long, or relaxed, so sometimes he just kind of drifted away, the Walrider’s quiet buzzing reverberating in his sensitive ears. 

When this first happened, he was so serene and calm that Waylon felt the need to take a picture. Not just for Miles to see in the morning, but for himself as well. Waylon needed to move all the time, not just in his own space, but he also needed to move hotels, move homes, move towns, all the time. If he stayed in one place too long he became restless, Miles let him drag him wherever he pleased. 

One morning Miles awoke slowly, vision foggy and a bit blinded from the sunlight wafting in from the crooked blinds of the cheap motel room Witness Protection had offered Waylon, illuminating the older man’s figure in golden rays that made his straw-coloured bedhead look like a lion’s mane. 

Waylon was already awake, staring up into Miles’ eyes, rich whiskey meeting cerulean blue. His smaller hand, rough and cracking from chewing and picking at them, was brought up to his face, rubbing Miles’ high cheekbones with the pad of his thumb. 

“We need to leave.” 

In that moment he absorbed the words, but was not listening. All he could think about was how many freckles Waylon had lost since he first met him, and if they were plentiful in the summer, or if he was maybe just imagining things. 

“Okay,” he spoke although he wasn’t there, “Whatever you want,” he assured, not needing an explanation.

 

ņ҉̻͉̹̳̹̠̹͟i̶̮̳͍̘̤͈͕͕̘̦̰̻͢͢͡ͅg̢̨̖̦̼͚̦̦̖̳͖̠͙͖̫͚͙̖̼͈͘͞͡h̨͏̶̸̢̙̤̖̯̮̳̗̗t̨̤̲̱̳͕̮̭̝̪̱́͘͘͝m̸̧̳̞͚̘̹̭͇̳͔͉̗͚̰͈̥͎̭͢͟͡ͅa̡̗̳̱̟̜̭̮̳̠̼̩̭̺͡ŕ̴̛̙̜͓͙̙̗͎͖̤͡ͅȩ͏͓͔̤̟̞̮̝̜̫̤͍͔͕̻̖̞

 

 

Something was wrong, Miles could feel it in his gut. Though he slept, he was never quite fully asleep, the Walrider saw to that. If Waylon was having a nightmare or a panic attack or he had suddenly gotten up, he would snap awake, immediately looking for the man who had wound his way into his life like smoke into his lungs. 

But this was not the case right now, because Miles was awake but he wasn’t _awake._ If he was alive, if he was a person, he would be hyperventilating right now, screaming, possibly shooting up out of bed, but something must have been _really_ wrong because everything was bathed in darkness, hues of red and green like he was looking through a kaleidoscope, and his mind was telling him _Go!_ screaming _Help Way!_ but his body just wouldn’t comply, meaning the Walrider had taken over completely. Something must have been extremely wrong. 

The static ring in his ears was deafening, and there was another voice there, presumably Waylon, but he couldn’t make out the words. There were hands on him, bruising grips on each bicep, and he panicked because _oh god,_ the Walrider had Waylon pinned. What was happening? What was going on? 

“Rider!” Waylon shouted their affectionate name for the creature, “Rider! What’s wrong? What’s happening?” 

Miles’ dark eyes and nose began to drip a dark viscous substance that dripped onto Waylon’s flushed cheeks, and his mouth opened but all that came out was a string of noises and code, letters and numbers that Waylon couldn’t decipher or make sense of. 

“Rider!” yelped Waylon as the grip on his arms became stronger, “You’re hurting me! Where’s Miles? Let Miles go!” 

_**”Way-lon,”**_ it spoke in its foreboding voice that Waylon knew all too well, _**”Way-lon. Way-lon. Pro-tect. Prot-ect you. Pro-tect the Whistleblower-“**_

 _”Help!”_ he screamed in an attempt to wake Miles, uncaring of their neighbours that would surely hear, “Miles, help me!”

The Walrider opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, the thick liquid dripped from its mouth and onto Waylon’s face, making him squirm and panic and shut his mouth tight as he turned away, trying to stop it from entering his orifices, huffing loudly into the bed sheets as teetered on the edge of a panic attack. 

But the Walrider became distraught, humming louder, gripping tightly to Waylon’s face and digging his thumb and middle finger into the corners of Waylon’s jaw so he would have no choice but to open it. He began crying, begging quietly, sobs wracking his body as the liquid, which he could now confirm as blood, coated his tongue and dripped down his hoarse throat. 

_**”Mine, Way-lon,”**_ it growled, letting go of it’s bruising grip on Waylon’s face, letting him cough and sputter the liquid back onto Miles’ paling face in a splatter that paralleled the constellations of the darkened midnight sky outside. 

“I know!” spoke Waylon in a gasp, “I know, I’m yours, you don’t have to remind me!” 

_**”They are com-ing.”** _

“Who?” Waylon gripped Miles’ face in both hands, “Rider, who’s coming?” 

_**”The men… in suits,”**_ it struggled for the right words, _**”They… will take you. Take Way-lon.”**_

“Never, Rider,” he assured the creature, still gasping for air, “They’ll never take me. Please bring Miles back, I need to- I need to talk to him.” 

_**”We will pro-tect, Way-lon.”**_ it spoke in a reassuring way, but Waylon could not find comfort in it, _**”Miles. Ri-der. We will pro-tect.”**_ It dipped down, opening it’s mouth to lick across the side of Waylon’s face, leaving a bloody streak in it’s wake and letting the coppery smell of blood assault the blonde’s senses. Waylon squirmed and huffed out a breath, knowing that if he struggled too much the Walrider would become upset with him. He knew whatever was happening the Walrider meant the best, meant to protect him, but sometimes its means were unconventional. 

It bit down on Waylon’s neck, making the smaller man let out a whimper, his hips jutting to the side against Miles’ leg. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want whatever was happening, but it didn’t help that he was so goddamn attracted to Miles, or that PTSD has kept him pent up for months now. It let up, laving its blood soaked tongue against the mark and sucking on the sensitive skin. Still sobbing, but losing his strength and willpower, Waylon lightly pressed a hand against Miles’ chest and turned his head away as the creature began leaving more marks down his neck, down his glistening chest, across his sweaty stomach. 

Oh god, he was getting hard, he could feel his boxers and Miles’ oversized sweatpants tightening. He was betraying Miles, destroying his unconscious trust in him. They had never done much more than cuddle or make out on good days, Miles had confessed to him once that he didn’t think his body could perform anymore, and it was left unsaid that this was because he was dead, his body ceasing all functions, including procreating. 

_“I understand if it’s… if you’re just finding comfort in me, I get I-I’m a guy-“ Waylon had stammered before Miles gripped his shoulders._

_“Waylon, I’m gay,” he pouted a bit, “That’s not how you feel, is it?”_

Waylon reassured him it wasn’t, because that was the utter and complete truth. He had been repressing his sexuality for years, out of fear that his family, friends, and society would abandon him, and he reassured Miles that even if they couldn’t do some things, letting him explore his sexuality in other ways was absolutely liberating and wonderful, despite the circumstances that led him to do so. 

But now he was eviscerating that notion, crushing the walls they had both worked to build around Miles’ insecurities. The Walrider began grinding against Waylon, Miles’ hipbone rubbing up and down his hard length, and the hands that pinned him down were now tracing his sides, moving to pull down his sweatpants and boxers, when suddenly Waylon sprung out of his catatonic state and raised his fist to punch Miles, the Walrider, across the face. 

This did nothing, of course, except for possibly break Waylon’s wrist. He clutched it close to him, letting out a quiet curse as the Walrider sat up suddenly, and then his eyes reverted to that same honey whiskey colour Waylon had grown to love, and his mouth was opening but this time it was the most soothing voice in the world, 

“Way?” 

Waylon loud out a loud sob, turning away from Miles so he was facing the adjacent wall, pulling his wrist close to his face and crying into it. It hurt, numbing his entire left side, but nothing compared to how he felt emotionally in this moment. 

“Baby-” he could hear Miles cough up blood, “Waylon, baby, please look at me.” 

The blond sobbed louder. His sweatpants and boxers were shifted down his hips, and he could feel the wet marks from the Walrider’s suck marks on his bare skin and blood on his face, but he was no longer hard, and he could barely _breath, oh god, he was drowning, he must be._

Before he can black out, Miles is gripping his shoulder gently and turning him, making him look up at the brunet. His wrist is throbbing, every move sending a shock of pain up the length of his arm, but he can’t seem to find it in him to care when Miles is looking down at him with _those_ eyes, looking so damn upset. 

“What did it do…” his eyes traced over the blood, the marks, the bruises on his bare biceps that were shaped perfectly like his own large hands, and then finally down to the v of Waylon’s hips, where his pants were tugged down, ripping a bit at the seams. “Oh, Oh god, it was going to-“ 

Waylon reached up with his good arm, pulling Miles down on himself, but he was still panicking and couldn’t get out of that space, he was about to pass out-

Suddenly Miles’ lips were on his, and he should be grossed out because he tastes like blood and the cigarette he smoked before bed, but it’s grounding, and he’s huffing air into Waylon’s mouth a bit, but not too much, and _god, he’s so fucking good at kissing._

Then he pulls away, leaning his forehead against Waylon’s, and sighing. His hands move to Waylon’s head, running a soothing hand through his knotted yellow locks, and kissing away his tears until they’re not coming out anymore, and the blood and tears are caked to his face but dry. 

“It said they’re coming,” Waylon croaks, “I don’t – I don’t know what that means, Miles, I don’t know what it was doing-” 

Miles sits up, moving his legs off the side of the bed, dropping his shoulders to rub at his eyes. 

“It was… marking you.” 

Waylon’s stomach drops. 

“They’re coming. It… wants you to smell like us, to look like you belong to us.” 

Needless to say, Miles doesn’t sleep anymore. 

 

e̸̶͉͓͕̣̭͈̼̳̠̲̘͍̜̯̗̪̮t̢̖̘̹̮͔̜̱̮͔̠͕̺̩͍̕͡h͕̗̯̲̮͕̼̻̠͜ͅe̕͏̶͓̦͇͓̯̀͞ŕ͈͔͉̙̙̭̣̻͍͢͡e͞͏̧̭̠̱͚̦ą̨̖͔̙̝̰̤̦̼͓͙̟͚̥͉̱̞͔͜l͕͖̰̦͈̗͉͍̳̬̗̻̟̟͙̮͉̖͓̀̕͢

 

 

They’re in Bloomington, Indiana when it happens. 

They’re at a quick stop grocery store on the outskirts of town, buying basic necessities for Waylon and some twinkies and cigarettes or Miles since that’s all he needs to get by anymore. When he tells Waylon this he laughs, because Miles is over six feet, a solid hundred and eighty pounds, and the vessel to a creature that can rip men to pieces with a snap of its fingers, yet he acts like he’s a university student fresh out of his parent’s house and not like a veteran PTSD ridden journalist who is, in all but few senses of the word, deceased.

Miles is holding the basket and following Waylon around, since his wrist is still broken. He’s browsing energy drinks when he sees a magazine he used to read in school, a raunchy gay porn mag that has him cringing and feeling nostalgic at the same time. He turns to show Waylon, but he’s not there anymore, and there’s a scuffle going on in the aisle beside him that has him dropping their basket and rushing to the other side of the store. 

There are three men tugging Waylon away, hands over his mouth, gripping tightly to his arms, and he’s thrashing and kicking and being dragged. Miles is furious, not just because they’re taking him, but because of how rough they’re handling the hundred and twenty pound man. 

Before he can call out, ask somebody to phone the police, the Walrider is acting, smokey tendrils tearing from his body, high-pitch shrieking, the works. It’s reaching for the men, pulling them off Waylon and launching two of them through a large window and shattering it into a million pieces. The third man panics for a second, dropping Waylon, but it is too late, and in a matter of seconds his lower half is ripped from his torso and Waylon is in Miles’ arms and out the door. 

“What are you doing?” Waylon shrieks as Miles stops outside of the store and drops to his knees, Waylon still in his lap, “Let’s get out of here!” 

A tendril reaches into his jacket and pulls out his zippo, and suddenly the sky goes dark, he can’t see Waylon’s face anymore, he can’t see or feel anything, so he must be dead.

Waylon is leaning over him, patting his face and crying into his chest because Miles is either completely dead or just passed out, but because he has no heartbeat or breathing he can’t tell, and he doesn’t know what he should do. The Walrider left him, it’s in the store, when suddenly it bursts into flames, and Miles is shooting up and almost head butting Waylon.

“What the fuck, Miles! What are you-“ 

_**”No time,”**_ he mumbles, _**”No witnesses, no survivors. C’mon, Way,”**_ he lifts Waylon like he’s nothing, and jumps into their old red Chevy pickup, driving away like they just robbed a bank. 

Waylon knows they might as well have. He’s in the passenger seat, huffing and fighting back an asthma attack as they drive away. Miles is pale, and his nose is bleeding a bit, but he looks dead serious so Waylon decides to say nothing. He knows why he did it, why he blew up the store, or the Walrider did. He knows that if the FBI knew he wasn’t alone, knew that Miles was with him, they would have his ass. He knows that if it got out what Miles was, what he was capable of, they would both be in deeper shit than they already are. He feels bad, because that man in the shop behind the counter did not know anything, and was just another casualty in their never-ending escape plot. 

They’re in Grant Ledge, Michigan when _it_ happens. 

Ever since Bloomington, Miles has been driving nonstop, and he won’t listen to Waylon at all. He knows Waylon is upset, he knows Waylon is scared of him and the world right now, and he just can’t think of anything to fix that right now, so he stays quiet. 

Then he gets another nosebleed, and another, and another, until he starts passing out at the wheel and that’s _really weird_ because he doesn’t ever pass out, but Waylon manages to convince him to get in the passenger seat and let him drive for a while. Miles fights it, he fights it because he knows what happens when he sleeps and because he knows he’s not supposed to, and he may act like he’s not afraid of anything but he’s twenty-six and that’s way too fucking early to die, and if he sleeps he might not wake up this time.

But eventually he drifts off, his head against the passenger door, leaving Waylon to his thoughts for a while. Until he looks over and Miles is just staring at him, eyes black, veins dark and protruding, but he just keeps staring that unblinking stare. 

“Miles?” 

_**”No,”**_ speaks the Walrider.

The blonde’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, and his other broken hand resting in his lap, but he tries not to let his anxiety show. Last time the Walrider showed itself he tore three men apart, and the time before that he almost forced himself on Waylon, so he’d say they’re not really on good terms right now. 

_**”Under-stand,”**_ it whispers, _**”Under-stand, Way-lon?”**_

“You know what? I understand, I do,” Waylon worries his lip between his teeth, “But I’m not happy about it.” The Walrider stays quiet, but it looks like it is holding back, “Is he… okay?” 

_**”Will be,”**_ it assures, _**”Loves you.”**_

“Yeah, Rider,” he sighs, “I know.” 

_**”No!”**_ its voice is quiet but its brow is furrowed and it sounds frustrated, _**”No, Way-lon. Miles loves you.”**_

Waylon doesn’t look away from the road, feeling a tear fall from his eye. 

_**”Do you love Miles?”** _

More tears fall, and Waylon is leaning back in the uncomfortable old seats of the truck. He can barely reach the pedals and the steering wheel, Miles knows and that’s why he never lets him drive. There’s a kink in his neck, knots in his shoulders, and an ache in his back but he isn’t feeling it right now because the Walrider is an all-encompassing presence. 

“I love Miles,” his voice breaks a bit as he whispers, “so much. I love him so much it hurts sometimes, and I can’t even feel guilty about leaving Lisa because I feel so good right now, even though we’re… even though this is happening.” 

The Walrider’s blank stare bores into his face, _**”You… feel shame?”**_

“I did,” the blond explains, “I used to, but it’s not worth worrying over anymore.” He switches lanes and gets off the exit, overhead lights blinding him momentarily, “We’re running for our lives and I almost died in an asylum, this is the plot of a bad video game and we’re living in it,” he chuckles darkly, “My sexuality is the least of my worries right now.”

The Walrider smiles, eyes closing, and shuffling further into the seat to get comfortable, _**”Good,”**_ it grins a bit but its inhuman still, _**”Love you, Way-lon.”**_

The words are electronic and unsettling, stuff out of his nightmares, but he can’t help but feel a little warmer, because the literal man of his dreams just confessed that he loved him. Well, it wasn’t really Miles who told him, but Rider knows his thoughts and he can’t, so it must be true. Why would he lie to Waylon? 

He reaches out and grabs Miles’ hand, rubbing his thumb along his cold knuckles.

“Yeah, love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> My poor boys, I love them so much. I also really enjoyed characterizing Walrider like this, I thought it was interesting. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought! I may add to this, I may not, we'll see.


End file.
